Black Blood
by DemonFox38
Summary: An old man hears a shot in the dark. He gets out of bed, never imaging what terror awaits him in the fields. There is a saying that the apple never falls far from the tree.


A shot rang out, and the dogs began to howl.

The cacophony broke the slumber of the old man. He had been dreaming of war, mud, trenches, and fallen comrades. An aging soldier like him could sleep through most noises. Even the sound of rifles firing in the night didn't frighten him. He lowered his sagging eyelids. No stranger would make the mistake of crossing into his farm. The dogs would have him snapped up in seconds.

He lay still for a few moments, eyebrows furrowing. There were more barks, then the pop of a rifle. Nothing screamed in its wake. Some poor bastard was a terrible shot. Good thing he hadn't been called to the front, then. Even an old goat like the man in the bed would have made short work of the invaders to the north. The greenhorns? The best they could do was brag and boast, especially those from the city. They hadn't seen what the old man had. They hadn't waded in the bogs of New Guinea, aiming for the whites of frightened, spectral eyes.

Old Mundy had made ghosts of many men. He feared none.

His wife was not so still. Her head was lifted from her pillow. The bed creaked under her weight as she glanced out the window. He gave a short grunt, then closed his eyes. She always had to have her nose in everything. It was just as well. He wasn't one for small talk. So much of it was wasted air.

"D'ya hear that? That's got ta be Shepherd 'n Sadie. Some ol' bushman's scarin' the hell outta them," she said.

The old man gave a grunt. "Leave 'em be."

"Sorry. Just…I'm always worried. I heard gunfire, and…" His wife began softly rambling at the mouth. "Never know when we'll be the next Darwin, ya know?"

"They won't go for us. The enemy, they want the ports. Sydney. Melbourne. Adelaide. Brisbane. Not us," the old man murmured. "I won't let the bastards fly past me. Long as I got my rifle. Promise ya."

His wife nodded, curlers rattling against each other. She settled back into bed. Old Mundy grumbled once, then buried his long face into his pillow. Another shot. There was a squeal something high and piercing. A wild pig, no doubt. What a fine mess that bloke outside was making. He gave a low sigh, then stepped out of his bed.

The old man opened the bedroom dresser, grabbing a fresh pair of socks. He snatched clean overalls and a jacket from the closet. He brushed his fingers across the top shelf. That was where he kept his old weapons. He grabbed a box of rounds, then took a knife. Might as well help the poor bastard cut his meal up. He reached further back, fingers brushing soft felt. His Akubra. Fine, then. It would be cool outside. He needed to keep his head warm, since his thinning hair wouldn't do the job. Patting around, he looked for one last item. It had to be there. Where would it—

His blood ran cold when he heard a hard thunk and Shepherd yowling in pain.

"Stay inside!" old man Mundy yelled at his wife. He rustled towards the bottom of his dresser, grabbing a worn shotgun and a box of shells. That damned son of his. Probably took the rifle out practicing and forgot to put it back. The blighter was always stealing the weapon. If anything happened to Shepherd, he'd beat the boy senseless. His constant thievery was bad enough. If he didn't learn a thing or two about responsibility, then by God, he was going to pound it into him before some sergeant get his fists on him.

The old man stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the back door shut. Windows rattled in his wake. One of the barn doors was cracked open, though no noses peeked from being it. The old man cursed. That would be another mess to clean up. He marched down a hill, boots wet and sloshing in the dew. Faint starlight cast a white sheen across the pasture. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus in the monochrome night. Scowling, he cursed to himself. Bunch of bastards just couldn't let an old fellow—

Cold breath caught in his throat. He'd almost stepped in Shepherd's body. The poor dog was far too gone for any help. He'd been trampled by cloven hooves. The old man's hands shook as he reached down to pet his dog one last time. His gray, wiry fur was slick with blood. Flesh hung from his mouth from where he'd torn at his killer. Damn old dog had been fighting hard. The old man snarled, stomping forward. A scarlet trail led him into the dark night.

He let anger burn through him. Blast that dog for fighting whatever creature was skulking around his farm. Damn his son for taking his rifle. He'd make that boy bury his dog. It was about time he saw what his recklessness would cost him. It was cruel. War was cruel. If he didn't learn that before he was eighteen, then he would learn it at the end of an Arisaka.

As he came over one more hill, the old man's rage froze and shattered.

His dog's killer was a devil. He was certain of it. The beast stood at nearly the height of a bull. It had the snout and tusks of a boar, teeth jutting out of its mouth in crooked angles. Ebony hooves dug into the ground, sending mud and flesh splashing in its wake. Its thick fur was shining like lightning in the dark night, wet and reeking of some foul odor. It kicked at the dog still nipping at its heels, sending the poor herder scrambling for safety. The creature gave a horrible scream as a blade pierced its thick hide. The old man stood in horror as he watching the gangly form of his son rise on the back of this beast and stab into its throat once more.

Panic kept the old man cold. That was his son! There he was, wrestling with a mountain of a boar, his forearms drenched with the creature's blood. He clenched onto the monster's thick hide, crying as the creature tried to buck him away. The old man knew that panic. His son had seen Shepherd die. He was running on fear, his nerves electrified with shock and terror. The old man knew that horror, knew how it made a man strong and weak. He'd felt the same so many years before, when his child hadn't even been a dream.

His son glanced up, finding his father on the dark hill. His eyes were white.

In that instant, he lost his grip. The wild boar bucked the old man's son onto the hillside. He landed with a crack and a shriek. The old man's heart gave an awful jitter. He slipped down the hillside, slamming two rounds into his shotgun. The creature rounded on his son, stamping at his prone form. He fought back, writhing and slashing as he pulled himself up the hill. One hoof slammed down on the serrated edge of his knife. It cleaved in two as the animal gave an awful scream. The creature cried once more as a double-barreled shotgun exploded twice in its head.

The old man snarled, fingers reloading his weapon automatically. The boar shook its massive head in its death throes. Taking no quarter, the old man pushed into its injuries. Two more bursts cut through the last synapses in its brain. It fell in a massive heap at his feet, hooves clawing at his legs in spasms. It did not take long for the creature to grow still and lifeless as the hills.

Terror still tore at the old man's guts. He turned to his son. The young man was still conscious, his ribcage shaking as he breathed. The old man put his gun aside, reaching down to check his son's injuries. A touch at his side sent spasms of pain through the young man's chest. There was no blood on his breath.

"Dad…" his son hissed, his eyes squinted shut. "I…I'm sorry."

Old Mundy could fight on any emotion, even terror. He could not do the same for speaking. There was an awkward crack in the old man's throat. He let anger flood him. "Ya dumb bastard! Where'd ya lose my gun?"

His son struggled to speak, his breath hitching. He wouldn't lift his head. Trying to hide his tears, no doubt. So stubborn. "Hit it in the pelt. Tried to run me down. I ran, but—Dad…"

The old man crumbled. His son was a fool, but he was still his child. "Stand up. Ya've got ta stand up."

His arms shook as he tried to push himself off the ground. He buckled on his knees. "I can't. Hurts," the young man gasped.

Sadie keened and whined behind the old man. He glanced over his shoulder. His wife hadn't listened. She took in the bloody sight with a heavy heart. He grimaced, watching her face grow pale. She knelt in the grass by her son, dew drenching her nightgown. She fought the pressure building behind her eyes. Her son lowered his face in shame. That finally pushed her over the edge. She shrugged off her jacket, tucking it around her son's body.

"I'll stay with 'im," she whispered. "Just…please—"

The old man nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. They needed the local doc as fast as possible. He laid his gun down by his wife, then ran back to the house as fast as his aching joints would go. Sadie rushed at his heels, stopping only to observe her dead companion. He didn't dare look behind him. He couldn't see his trampled friend, nor watch his wife stroke his son's bloodied hair. He couldn't look the slain devil in the eyes.

He was too weak of a man for that.

/***/

He spent the morning burying the creatures in his yard. Shepherd hadn't been the last of the victims. There was a trampled calf in the pasture. Two more sheep were gored through. He found his gun, stamped in half by the same bloodied hooves that had terrorized his farmland. That was the least of his losses. He could always replace a gun.

If that boar had taken his son…

Neighbors from nearby acreages popped their heads into his yard as soon as they'd seen the old doc's vehicle pull into their homestead. They'd all asked him the same questions. He'd answered them all the same—with a terse grunt and a nod towards the house. His wife was more than willing to talk. He had work to do. Someone had to see to his farm.

He heard a lot of tales that morning, but he didn't know how many of them were true. There were rumors of this dead mountain of a creature lying dead in his pasture. Others talked about losing lambs and cattle in the night. Some spoke quietly of fields ripped asunder. Lawmen offering various prices for its corpse. Hunters disappointed that they didn't take its life. On and on and on. Just a bunch of running mouths.

He had finished burying Shepherd when the front door creaked open. Sadie was barking her face off at strangers. The good doctor was taking his leave, speaking of prices and treatments to his wife. She smiled and laughed, shaking the good man's hand. Old Sawbones must have done his job well. The old man gave a short sniffle in the cool morning breeze, then sat down. Sadie bounded into his lap. She licked at his ears, then bounced away once more. The silly bitch couldn't ever settle down.

Soft shuffling came to the old man's side. His son knelt down next to the fresh grave, slow and careful in his descent. He had fresh stitches in his arms and on his face. The old man could see cotton wrapping gently strewn about his chest, just below the hem of his shirt. His hands were cut, but free of major injury. He was sore, no doubt. He didn't have much fat to absorb the shock of the throw that animal had pitched him.

"Ya should be in bed," the old man grunted. "Unless ya want to do yer chores."

His son grimaced. "Snuck past Mum while she was talkin' up the doc."

"Atta boy. Leave the cluckin' to the hens," the old man nodded.

The two of them sat quietly, observing Shepherd's grave at their leisure. His son touched the freshly disturbed earth. Neither glanced at the shadowy behemoth heaped just behind their line of sight. His son slumped, face slack. He was weary. The doctor's medicine was kicking in fast. It wouldn't surprise the old man if his son fell asleep right on top of his dog's grave.

"Proper screw up, aren't I?" the young man asked.

The old man frowned. "Yer aim's horrible. That's fer sure. Can't trust ya a damn around the animals, either."

His son nodded. He leaned forward, trying not to let his dizziness take him over. The old man sighed. Damn kid was trying, at least. Perhaps he wasn't strong enough yet, but he couldn't blame his son for not giving the fight a go. Maybe he would have taken that beast down, had his old goat of a father not stepped in and spooked him. It was hard to say.

The old man got up, then dusted his britches. "Stand up. Come on, now."

His son did as he asked. He looked like he was going to fall on his face at any moment, but he stood up. The old man sighed. His son was so much like him. It was a shame, really. If he'd taken up his mother, he'd at least have enough meat on his body to properly wrestle a giant beast. The two of them hardly looked like strong Australian men. No wonder they struggled so much.

"When ya get ta feelin' better, I'll put ya back ta work. Trust me, ya'll have work ta do. Think we'll start by workin' on yer bloody aim, for one," the old man chuckled as he braced his son.

The young man lifted his head. "Really?"

The old man nodded. "'course. Can't have yer crap aim protectin' the farm."

"Okay. We'll do that," his son sighed. He was almost dead on his feet. The old man shook his head. Dumb kid shouldn't have come to see him. He needed to rest. An old bugger like him would keep for another day.

His son murmured as they slipped past his mother and their doctor. "Think…think I'll ever be as good as ya were?"

"Good as I am!" the old man bragged.

"Better?" his son smirked.

"Tell ya what," the old man chuckled. "Ain't no man that can outdo me. I bet my hat on it."

The year wasn't through before Old Mundy lost his hat to his son.

/***/

Author's Note

Decided to cross post this from my Tumblr account, since I haven't been too active in writing lately. It's a nice little piece. So, what the hell.


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